Ficlets and Drabbles
by ChelsieSouloftheAbbey
Summary: Mostly Chelsie, some Baxley and perhaps Banna to come. From a tumblr prompt list - ALL FLUFFY FLUFFINESS.
1. What's That Behind Your Back?

**The first in a series of tumblr prompts, from the list recently on my blog ( csota). Separate from my other prompt fic because these won't be exclusively Chelsie (although this one is, and _most_ will be). Please let me know what you think! Not beta'd; just for fun. xxx**

 **CSotA**

* * *

It was the fourth dreary day in a row, raw and chilly as November turned to December. The rain appeared to be coming down in sheets, windswept and beating against the windows and doors of Downton Abbey. The hilltop location of the building did nothing to ward off the wind and rain, and an uncomfortable dampness had begun to seep into the walls, something which was currently adding to the irritability of its inhabitants.

Elsie Carson sighed as she glanced at the window, and a flash of light was shortly followed by a far-off rumble of thunder. She and Charlie had been fortunate to have missed the worst of it when they walked from the cottage this morning, but she feared they'd be stuck at the Abbey this evening if things didn't improve. It was kind of her Ladyship to have offered them the opportunity, but Elsie was not particularly looking forward to spending a night in a small bed that would be located several rooms away from her husband's comfortable, loving embrace. They'd spent quite enough years sleeping like that, after all.

A small rap on the door pulled her from her unhappy musings and made her smile, and as she swiveled in her chair she called out a gentle, "Come in."

She rose as Sybbie passed through the door, a forlorn expression on the young girl's face.

"Mrs. Hughes," she said quietly, "I'm bored." Sybbie promptly plopped herself in the chair normally occupied by Charles, and Elsie smiled at her.

"I'm sure you are, dear." Elsie took her own seat at the other side of the small table, turning so that she could face the girl. Sybbie's legs were swinging to and fro beneath the seat, an outward symbol of what was clearly the girl's pent-up energy. "Four days is a very long time to be cooped up indoors, with no chance to get out and play with Nanny."

"It is," Sybbie nodded. Her sage tone reminded Elsie so much of Lady Sybil that the housekeeper's heart clenched painfully.

"Do you know what your mother and I used to do when she was not much older than you and _she_ was cooped up in the Abbey because of the rain?"

Sybbie's eyes grew wide with wonder. "No," she whispered. "Tell me, please."

Elsie smiled, and Sybbie could see affection in her expression.

"We played hide and seek," she declared, and Sybbie's eyes grew even wider.

"You didn't!"

"We _did,_ " Elsie insisted with a nod. "Just in the downstairs rooms, mind you. And not in the kitchen, else Mrs. Patmore might become startled or bump into us with a pot fresh off the fire."

Sybbie shuddered. "Not in the kitchen," she repeated. "A good idea." She was quiet for a moment, considering. "May _we_ play now, Mrs. Hughes? Do you have time? I know you're very busy."

Elsie glanced at the clock, mentally reviewed her rather empty schedule for this particular afternoon, and chuckled at the girl's barely-contained excitement. "Certainly. Why don't you run up and tell Nanny? I presume the others are asleep?"

Sybbie nodded.

"Alright, then. I'll wait for you here and alert the other staff to our plans. I wouldn't want any of them giving away my hiding spot to you!"

She watched as Sybbie retreated gleefully in order to deliver the message, and then popped her head into the servants' hall and mentioned their little game to Mr. Barrow. No one else seemed to be around at the moment, which Elsie felt was just as well.

The sound of Sybbie's light footsteps coming back down the stairs alerted her to the girl's return, and Elsie bent down slightly in order to whisper. "All set, then?"

"All set! You count first, and I'll hide!"

"Be sure to be quiet as a mouse," Elsie advised, covering her eyes.

"Like a cat," Sybbie replied. "Mice squeak, and I love cats."

Elsie shifted her hands for a moment and looked at the girl. "I do, too. We had them when I was young and growing up on a farm."

"Do you and Mr. Carson have a cat?" Sybbie's forehead scrunched up, and Elsie chuckled.

"No," she answered softly. "Mr. Carson isn't quite as fond of them as I am. I keep telling him I'll bring one home one day, but of course I would never do that without his agreement."

Sybbie pondered that for a moment. "Because he might be angry?"

"He might. But it's not kind to surprise someone with something they'll likely not appreciate. Better to discuss big things, like the caring of a pet, and agree on them first," she explained patiently.

"Papa does that," Sybbie said. "When we decided to come back to England, we made the decision together!"

"Precisely," Elsie replied, covering her eyes. "Now, sneak off like a kitten, dear, before I reach thirty. One, two, three …"

Sybbie scampered off, and Elsie tried to block her ears from hearing anything in order to make it a bit more of a game.

She found the girl tucked underneath the small podium in the servants' hall. Elsie subsequently hid behind a drapery in her own office, followed by Sybbie in the boot room, and then Elsie crouched beside the piano.

"One more, I think, Miss Sybbie," Elsie said, mindful of the clock.

"Alright. I know just the spot!"

Elsie counted, hearing Sybbie's retreating steps.

"Daring girl," Mr. Barrow quipped, and Elsie's eyebrows rose in reply.

"You're not supposed to give hints, Mr. Barrow," she said with a smirk, and immediately headed to her husband's pantry.

Two steps from the door, however, a small _crash_ emitted from her destination. Elsie rushed through the door, noting at once that Charles still hadn't returned from upstairs … and that Sybbie had something clutched in her hands and a terrified look on her face.

"Oh, dear," Elsie murmured, approaching the girl slowly. "What's happened?"

"I think I broke it," Sybbie whispered tearfully, and Elsie watched as a single, large tear fell from the girl's long lashes.

"Are you hurt?" Elsie reached out tentatively, brushing the tear from Sybbie's cheek and glancing down to examine what the girl held in her grasp as Sybbie informed her that she, herself, was uninjured.

In Sybbie's hand was a silver cup, likely one Charles had been intending to polish upon returning to his office. She handed it to Elsie, who examined it and noted a small dent in the side. It was barely noticeable, but she knew it would be blatantly obvious to her astute husband.

"It's not broken," the housekeeper declared.

"Mr. Carson will shout at me," Sybbie whispered, and Elsie crouched down and drew the girl into her arms.

"He will not shout at you, petal. I promise you that." She rubbed Sybbie's back as the girl let a few small, soft sobs escape before gathering herself together once again.

 _Poise and grace,_ Elsie thought, _yet still such a small child._

She heard Charlie's footfalls before either of them saw him and met his eyes with her own immediately as he passed through the door, a silent communication between them so that he'd not frighten Sybbie even further.

"Oh, no," he said, his voice rumbling but quite soft, and Elsie winked at him in appreciation. "What have we here?" He saw Elsie move and added inquisitively, "And what's that behind your back?"

Elsie paused, considering how to phrase it. What she didn't expect was Sybbie to take the cup from her hand and then turn and stand up ramrod straight, tilting her head back to meet Charlie's gaze.

"I broke your cup," she announced bravely, holding it out to him. "I couldn't find a spot to hide, and I was rushing and bumped it off of your desk. I'm so very sorry."

Charles pursed his lips as he took the cup from her. He turned it over, examining it as Sybbie watched, enthralled at how the size of it seemed to shrink in his much larger hands.

Elsie watched her husband's face as he brushed his finger over the surface of the dent and frowned … and a lump formed in her throat as she realized what he was about to say.

"Miss Sybbie, there is no need for you to be sorry," Charles told her, his voice soothing to the girl's ears. He motioned to the chair by the fireplace. Sybbie sat dutifully, her hands clasped tightly on her lap as Charles took the seat across from her. He held the cup out and tapped the edge of the dent. "This, I'm certain, was _my_ fault, and not yours."

Elsie closed her eyes briefly, knowing she'd been correct; when she opened them, Charles glanced up at her and she could see the pain hidden behind the expression he was currently maintaining for Sybbie. She tilted her head, encouraging him.

"You see, Miss Sybbie," Charles said, turning his attention back to her, "my hands aren't as steady as they used to be. A sign of old age, I'm afraid. I was polishing the silver the other day and this one slipped from my grasp and fell to the floor. That's what caused this little dent, you see. And the cup was on my desk today to remind me that it needs to be brought into town for a bit of repair."

"Ohh," Sybbie replied softly. Her gaze traveled down to his hands, which were showing no sign of trembling at that moment. "So it was an accident?"

"It was. But not yours."

"Will Donk be cross with you?" She looked back up at Charles's face, concerned, and he smiled sweetly at her.

"Probably not," he replied. "After all, accidents do happen, and I've not had one like this in many years."

Elsie watched as the girl processed this information. Sybbie surprised her by hopping down from the chair, placing her small hand on Charles's broad shoulder, and giving him a kiss on the cheek.

"I'm sorry about your hand, Mr. Carson," she whispered. "But I am glad you're not cross with me and Mrs. Hughes."

Charles was taken aback. "Why would I be cross with Mrs. Hughes?"

"Well," Sybbie reasoned, "you didn't seem happy that she had something hidden behind her back."

Charles threw his head back and laughed. "Oh! That … Yes, well, you see, Miss Sybbie," he began, rising from the chair and smiling lovingly at his wife, his eyebrows raised, "I was afraid she _might_ have been about to surprise me with something quite different than a silver cup."

"Like what?" Sybbie asked, intrigued.

Charles bent down and whispered in her ear, making her giggle. "Like a kitten!"

"Oh, Mr. Carson," Sybbie laughed, "she'd never do that!"

Charles looked at Elsie, bemused. "I'm not sure about that," he replied.

"I am," Sybbie insisted. "Mrs. Hughes loves you very much, and she'll discuss bringing a kitten home with you before she actually does it."

Elsie looked down at the floor, her face pink as she felt her husband's gaze boring into her.

"I think I've been caught out," she murmured.

"It would appear so," he agreed.

Sybbie bade them goodbye and scampered back upstairs, her need for frivolity filled for the time being. Upon seeing her safely to the stairs, Charles returned to his pantry and closed the door softly behind himself. When he turned, his arms were instantly full of a rather emotional housekeeper.

"That was very brave of you, Charlie," she said, her voice thick. She brushed at his lapel, then grasped his shoulder and kissed him firmly on the lips. "You didn't need to tell her _why_ you dropped it, you know."

"I do know." He leaned down and kissed her once more, then again, drawing back before it could become something decidedly inappropriate for their current locale. "But it's alright. And whilst I have you here, I've somewhat of a surprise for you."

"Oh?"

Charles cleared his throat. "The weather shows no sign of letting up," he began, "which led to a rather uncomfortable, yet beneficial, conversation with his Lordship."

Elsie's eyes widened, but she remained silent.

"Evidently, you're to prepare one of the unused rooms in the east wing for us tonight," he said, and he smiled at the look that passed over her face: complete, utter _shock._

"What?"

Charles was nodding. "He insisted. Said it wouldn't be right to force newlyweds apart so soon after their wedding."

Elsie's face turned scarlet. "That's his wife's idea," she said.

"Perhaps." Charles reached to open the door, moving aside so that Elsie could pass by. As she did, she trailed her fingertips across his belly before looking both ways to ensure no one was nearby.

"We've no pajamas, Charlie," she commented with a smirk.

"Well, then," he said, clearing his throat and trying to maintain his composure, "I suppose you'll have to choose the location of that room very, _very_ carefully."

"Indeed I will."

* * *

 **The prompt for this selection was a request from Hogwarts Duo and tumblr's downtonabbeyandausten - "What's that behind your back?" I hope I've done it justice. x**


	2. Don't Look Down

**For tumblr's downtonabbeyandausten - a Baxley one-shot. They're not really my wheelhouse, so I hope I've done them justice here. xxx**

 **CSotA**

* * *

It was a warm spring day, one that found Phyllis Baxter softly humming a tune as she changed over the contents of Lady Grantham's wardrobe. Pulling out one dress after another, she laid them carefully over the bed, running her hands over the beads every once in a while and appreciating the talent that had gone into making each item. She, herself, would never know the feeling of sliding such fine fabrics over her arms, but that suited her. She'd had her taste of expensive things once, and that had been more than sufficient to last a lifetime.

Each winter dress was carefully folded between sheets of delicate tissue and then placed into one of several storage trunks. Phyllis had already aired out the lighter dresses that would be worn until new ones were ordered, although she had a suspicion that the number of new items might be lower this season. Rumblings of financial strain had reached the downstairs, too, in the form of conversations about the butler, an unnecessary under butler, and the future of the footmen and the live-in maids.

"There," she murmured, tucking the last of the spring frocks. There were scarves, too, along with parasols, jewelry, and shoes, and Phyllis arranged and organized them all sensibly before securing the latches.

A glance at the clock in the corridor put a bit of a spring into her step. She had a … well, she wasn't sure _what_ it was, precisely. Her mind finally settled on the word _appointment._ Yes, that was it. She had an _appointment_ with Joseph Molesley to go into town on an errand for Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson.

It certainly wasn't a _date._ She shook her head at the thought, feeling her cheeks pink as she did so.

Except that he didask her to accompany him, and her presence was entirely unnecessary to the task at hand, which involved sneaking in a birthday cake for Mrs. Patmore from a local baker.

The clock chimed, making Phyllis jump.

 _Two o'clock,_ she thought, and her heart skipped. _Here we go._

Her footsteps were nearly silent as she slipped down the servants' stairs, her mind already focused all of the things she's wanted to ask Mr. Molesley about but didn't have the courage to bring up with others around to hear.

oOoOoOo

There was a stillness to the afternoon air that made Joseph smile. It was something about the ease of being with Miss Baxter, something beautiful that seemed to blossom in the space between them as she became slightly freer with her words and he became slightly less anxious in his demeanor, and he cherished it.

He found her distracting, too, and he'd lost track of the glimpses he'd taken of her hand, trying to examine it as it swung by her side. For the briefest of seconds he'd contemplated allowing his own to brush against it, but he refrained. He didn't want to frighten her … or himself, in all honesty.

Miss Baxter was asking after his father, which was perhaps Joseph's favorite topic, and he was willingly providing the answers she sought when suddenly, she stopped walking.

He followed suit, and his eyes met hers, her face terrified as she stared at the ground ahead of where they stood.

"Don't look down," she murmured.

"What? Miss Baxter, are you all right?"

"I'm … I'm not sure …" She was stammering, which was wholly uncharacteristic of her, and so Joseph did the only thing he could think to do.

He looked down.

"Oh, heavens," he muttered, letting out a slow breath, "it's a snake!"

And then, feeling Miss Baxter's eyes upon him, Joseph crouched down carefully, reached swiftly, and grabbed the rather long garden snake behind the head. He held tightly, quickly making his way to the side of the path, where he tossed the snake in the grass and watched to be sure it slithered away.

He was brushing his hands together to clean the dirt off of them as Miss Baxter continued to stare at him, her mouth hanging open in shock.

"Nothing to be afraid of," he told her, turning and seeing her ashen complexion. "Miss Baxter?" He reached for her, stopping just short of laying his hands on her arms.

Her mouth clapped shut as she contemplated him. "Mr. Molesley," she said at last, quite slowly as if she had to force the words out. "How … I mean to say, you weren't bothered at all by that … that _thing_! How were you not afraid?"

Joseph smiled at her, feeling his cheeks pink as he stood a bit taller. "We always had them 'round when I was a lad," he explained. "They'd head for the greenhouses sometimes and curl up in the corners. Mum was always afraid of them, so Dad taught me early on how to catch them without being bitten."

"You mean you've done this _before?_ " Phyllis couldn't help it; she was simply stunned.

"Oh, dozens of times," he replied, nodding. "Nothing to it, really."

Phyllis nodded slowly, thinking of how unfair it was that she'd never be able to share this story, for the tale of one of the bravest things she'd ever seen Joseph Molesley do was the one _no one_ would _ever_ believe.

"I see," she whispered, swallowing.

Joseph waved his hand in the general direction of the village. "Shall we forge ahead, Miss Baxter?"

They set forth again, lost in thought for a while as Miss Baxter gathered her wits about her.

"You're quite brave, Mr. Molesley."

The laugh that escaped his mouth was quite loud in the relative quiet of their surroundings.

"I mean it," she insisted, firmly but quietly.

"It was only a snake," he argued gently.

"You do realize most people are rather afraid of them, don't you?"

Joseph shrugged. "I suppose we all have our own things to be afraid of, but snakes aren't mine." He laughed again and smiled sheepishly at her. "One of the few things I'm not bothered by, when it comes down to it."

Phyllis glanced about them. Seeing no one, she gathered up a bit of her own courage, stepped a bit more closely to him as they walked, and brushed her fingers against his hand – once, twice, until he caught them in his own the third time.

Joseph looked over at her, but her smile calmed his fears.

"All right, Mr. Molesley?" she asked gently.

Joseph took a deep breath, thought for a moment, and nodded.

"Perfect," he whispered.


	3. You've Got Something on Your Cheek

**A/N: I'm working on the prompt requests again, I promise. This one, however, was my own choice from the list. It's a rather belated birthday gift for a friend. Sometimes you meet the loveliest people through fanfic reviews, and she's a wonderful one, indeed.**

 **The setting was song inspired. This one is Enya's "Amid the Falling Snow." It can be found on Spotify and Apple Music, and I've posted a link to it on my tumblr.**

 **Cheers! xxx**

 **CSotA**

* * *

 _A million feathers falling down,_

 _A million stars that touch the ground,_

 _So many secrets to be found_

 _Amid the falling snow …_

The snow was falling softly, covering the grounds of Downton Abbey in crisp, blueish-white blanket. Clouds blocked the moon, but the light from the windows was enough to make the large flakes twinkle as they cascaded down.

Elsie stood on the front stoop, a bit of snow building up on the edge of her coat and, unseen, on the brim of her hat as well. Nostalgia filled her heart as she looked out over the land, the vast, wintry fields reminding her of farmland and neighbors in a land - and time, she supposed - which was nearly lost to her now. Lytham St Annes had provided her with more opportunities to see her sister, but it had taken away her only reason to ever return home.

 _Still …_ She sighed. _Perhaps someday._

As the last bits of her sigh steamed in the air before her lips, a faint sound made its way to her ears. The automobile she'd been waiting for crested the hill, and the light from its headlamps twinkled in the snow and added to the magic of the entire scene. To her mind, it seemed to take ages for the motor to park in front of the doorway with its precious cargo tucked inside, and she made every attempt not to rush forward in her excitement.

Thomas Barrow stepped past her, reaching for the door and opening it for Lord Grantham. "Welcome back, Milord."

"Thank you, Barrow," Robert replied with a nod.

"Welcome home, Milord," Elsie echoed, forcing herself to look at him despite the small flip of her stomach as Charles alighted from the car.

Robert smiled. "Thank you for lending me a valet, Mrs. Hughes. Despite being out of practice, he's certainly not lost his touch."

Elsie gave a slight nod. "I'm sure he hasn't," she managed, feeling a flush creep up her cheek and hoping it would go unnoticed. No, despite the tremor, Charles certainly had not lost his gentle touch … she knew that intimately well by now.

Robert passed into the house, with Thomas carrying his single valise. Finally alone once the chauffeur pulled the car away, Elsie turned to her husband.

The look in his dark eyes was powerful, and her breath caught as he reached his hand up to her face.

"You've got something on your cheek," he murmured by way of greeting, and Elsie closed her eyes as he gently brushed away a melting snowflake from just below the corner of her eye, leaning into his palm and wishing desperately that it was his skin she felt instead of the soft leather of his glove.

"Well, it _is_ snowing," she replied, and then she let out a soft laugh. "Welcome home, Charlie. How was it?"

"It was two nights away from my wife," he replied, and - much to her shock and delight - he leaned in and brushed his lips against hers.

"But a kindness to his Lordship," she reminded him. "And to Mr. Bates."

"True," he replied, taking his small suitcase from where the chauffeur had deposited it and escorting his wife around to the back of the abbey. "How is Robbie?"

Elsie smiled brilliantly. "Oh, Charlie, he's such a delight. Anna is recovering well, and I don't blame Mr. Bates for not wanting to spend a minute away from them."

"His Lordship agrees," Charles informed her. "He's asked me to step in again next weekend when the Sinderbys will be here, and after that Mr. Bates will be back."

"So you'll be underfoot, then? Don't get in my way whilst I'm trying to work, Mr. Carson," she teased, biting down on her lip as she smiled at him and watched as he held the door open for her, one bushy eyebrow raised high at her cheek. No matter; she saw the twinkle of amusement in his eyes.

The rest of the evening hour was consumed by conversation at the servants' table, where Mrs. Patmore had kindly provided hot tea and biscuits for anyone who had a moment to stop and chat. Charles relayed the minimal details from his brief trip with Lord Grantham, which had been to speak with a farmer Tom Branson had met who was interested in leasing a bit of the farmland at the Abbey.

"With things going the way they seem to be, it appears wise for his Lordship to broaden his horizons," Thomas observed, and Charles nodded approvingly.

"I agree, and I believe it all went quite well."

The conversation went on for a bit, but when the clock struck the nine o'clock hour, everyone scattered. Charles, released from all duties upon having returned to the abbey, followed his wife to her parlour.

The fire was going in the hearth, but Charles reached for a couple of logs to add a bit more warmth. He knew Elsie had some work to finish before they made their way home, and he kept a book on her shelf for evenings such as these.

But when he stood and turned from the fire, he was surprised to see that she'd closed - and, apparently, _locked_ \- her office door.

"Elsie?" he enquired gently, even as she approached him and wrapped her arms around him; naturally, he engulfed her in his own embrace, returning her very bold affection.

"I missed you terribly," she told him, her voice somewhat muffled by his jacket. "I just need a moment like this - with no interruptions."

"Fine by me." He tipped his head and kissed the top of her brow, allowing his lips to linger there as he inhaled the scent of her shampoo and squeezed her a little more tightly. When he felt her begin to back away, his eyes met hers, and his brow furrowed as he read the heavy emotion in her eyes. Before he was even aware of what he was doing, his fingers were pressed against the back of her neck, pulling her in for a deep, slow, loving kiss.

Breaking away after a few moments, Elsie brushed a hand over his arm. "I have some work to do," she reminded him, her voice thick.

"You do, and I'd best let you get to it," he agreed. "And then we can go home."

She smirked as she gently pushed him away, then took her seat and watched him as he retrieved his book from the shelf. He unbuttoned his jacket and laid it over the back of the settee, then slid his new spectacles out of the pocket and made himself comfortable.

"I rather like you in those," Elsie said quietly, and he looked up and smiled.

"Good thing. Your husband isn't getting any younger, you know."

She turned to her desk with a smirk. "Well, if I remember correctly, he's not completely fallen apart just yet."

Charles laughed. It was a warm sound, albeit rare, that filled both the room and his wife's heart.

Soon, the sound of the pen's scratching, the crackle of the fire, and the occasional turning of a page were all that could be heard.

Outside, the snow continued to fall lightly.

 _I close my window to the night._

 _I leave the sky her tears of white._

 _And all is lit by candlelight_

 _Amid the falling snow._

* * *

 **I'd love a wee review if you have a moment. x**


	4. A Bright Spirit

**A/N: Happy Birthday to canadianjudy! I had to do a song ficlet because somehow we always seem to end up discussing music that we both love. This song is actually a two-part compilation from Barbra Streisand's "Duets" album (one of my all-time favorite albums - this song is also on "Back to Broadway" btw) and features Barbra and Johnny Mathis. I've moved the lyrics around here, not that anyone will mind, and the link to listen on my tumblr ("at" csota). I always encourage giving the song a listen.**

 **I hope you have a MARVELOUS birthday, my friend, and … SEE YOU SOON! xxx**

 **CSotA**

* * *

 ** _I love her; we're one_**

 ** _There's nothing to be done_**

 ** _Not a thing I can do_**

 ** _But hold her_**

 ** _Hold her forever …_**

Charles stared at the object on the workbench, sighing. He reached for it, drew his finger along the edge before withdrawing it again and placing his hand in his pocket. Tilting his head to the side, he contemplated the item's shape, its intricate details-

"It won't bite, you know."

He reached his other hand behind him and squeezed Elsie's fingers as she placed them within his grasp. Then, on a whim, he pulled her closer and dropped a kiss to the top of her head.

"I am aware of that, but …" His voice wavered, and she pressed herself firmly against his side and rested her head on his shoulder.

"But?"

He held out the hand she didn't have clasped in hers, and it trembled before them.

"I'll foul up the details," he said softly, and his voice held carefully-balanced tones of anger, frustration, and sadness.

"We'll do it together, then," Elsie replied with a decisive nod. "It'll need time to dry between layers, though, so we really do need to start today. Why don't you do all of the blue and white, and I'll come in later and paint here ..." She pointed to something at the front. " ... and these here?"

"And what about that?" He pointed to another item resting against the wall.

"Well," Elsie mused, "that's a separate piece anyhow. We should both be able to finish that one together, working each on our own side." She paused, then drew her own finger across the top of the object on the bench, marveling at the smooth edges. "You have already done a fine job, Charlie. I do believe we've found you a retirement hobby."

He turned to look into her eyes, finding the corners crinkling as she smiled up at him, and - somewhere in their deep blue depths - the encouragement he needed.

"All right, then, Elsie. _Together."_

 ** _I love him; I'm his_**

 ** _And everything he is, I am too_**

 ** _Not a thing I can do_**

 ** _But hold him_**

 ** _Hold him forever …_**

It took almost two hours before Charles finished the first coat of paint. He stood back and examined the finish with a critical eye, reaching out twice to dab at small, thick drips gathered in one corner before deciding to leave well enough alone and just let the blasted thing dry. He removed his apron and hung it on a hook by the door.

On his way out of the work shed he paused, a twinkle in the window of the cottage catching his eye. It was a flash of green, one which made his heart hurt for half a second. Before he could put a name to the feeling as _sadness_ , however, it was replaced by an overwhelming joy as he watched his wife's form pass behind the same window, pause, and peer out at him.

"Finished?" Her voice carried clearly through the open window and over to where he stood.

"Finally," he called, crossing the yard at last.

Elsie watched him approach the house from where she remained by the sink. Her gaze flitted up to the small glass shamrock that was hanging before the window pane, and she smiled at the memory of Mr. Branson and Miss Sybbie appearing at the school house on the Carsons' wedding day. She hadn't thought anything would ever outshine the joy she'd been feeling that day, and it had only been added to when Sybbie had approached her and Charles on their way to the car that was to whisk them away to the train station. The young girl had pressed something small wrapped in paper into Elsie's hand and had hugged her tightly before returning to the safety of her father's arms. Elsie had opened the gift immediately, revealing a beautiful glass shamrock hanging from a white ribbon.

"For good luck, always," Mr. Branson had said. "Sybil picked it up when we were in Ireland. She always meant for the two of you to have it. I told her she was being silly, but she always insisted that you'd end up married someday."

As Charles had led her to the waiting car, Elsie had fought back a flow of tears. And when they'd finally moved into the cottage, she'd hung the shamrock in the kitchen window in order that she might see it every day and be reminded of Lady Sybil's generous love.

Charles was already in the kitchen and rolling his shirtsleeves back down by the time Elsie turned to face him.

"How does it look, then?"

"Not bad," he admitted, leaving only his cuffs still turned up as he washed and dried his hands. "Smells good in here."

"A beef stew," she replied by way of explanation. "Daisy dropped it off when you were out in the shed. Sounded better than the leftover chicken, which will keep until tomorrow."

"Hmm. That was thoughtful of her."

Elsie busied herself with bringing the wine to the table, then watched as Charlie poured them each a glass before they sat down. She was comforted by the fact that his hands were still and then chuckled a bit when she noticed that he'd done up his cuffs once again.

He looked up and caught the brief shake of her head. "Els?"

Her smile only broadened as she made her way to his side, then spontaneously wrapped her arms around his middle and squeezed tightly.

"What's all this, then?"

Tipping her head and leaning back against his warm hands, which were loosely resting at the small of her back, she replied, " _This_ is simply that your wife loves you very much, Charlie." Her voice wavered, and she swallowed down her emotion. "Very much, indeed."

"That's only because of the gift for Miss Sybbie," he teased, evoking the soft laugh he'd hoped for before brushing her lips with his.

"It is not, and you know it," she answered, pushing away so they could both take their seats for dinner.

As was their habit when dining alone in their cottage, Charles and Elsie raised their wine glasses to one another.

"To us," he began, the words familiar but still reminding him how very _lucky_ he was to share them with her almost every evening.

"To us," she replied. "For this wonderful day we've been able to share."

He smiled as they clinked the glasses together. "And for the prospect of many more to come."

 ** _Make of our hands one hand,_**

 ** _Make of our hearts one heart,_**

 ** _Make of our vows one last vow,_**

 _ **Only death will part us.**  
_

Elsie beamed at Charles as they stood in their parlour the following Saturday afternoon - her half day, strategically planned. The knock on the door was soft, and Charles returned her smile.

"Ready?" she asked, glancing at the large box set on the floor by Charlie's armchair.

"I believe we are." He nodded, winked at her, and opened the door.

"Miss Sybbie! Well, now, this is a pleasant surprise!"

Sybbie looked up at her father, who smiled and nodded encouragingly, before she turned back to Charles. "Thank you for inviting us," she replied a bit formally. Charles stepped aside and ushered them both in, shaking Tom Branson's hand - a gesture that was becoming a bit more comfortable to both of them each time it happened. Retirement, Charles had learned, involved more changes than simply being unemployed.

"Hello, Mrs. Carson!" Sybbie's face brightened upon seeing her favorite member of the household staff, and - given the distance she currently was from all things formal at Downton - she took a few short strides and dove into Elsie's embrace. The Carsons' home was a refuge for the young girl, a place that reminded her so much of her own home with her Papa and so very little of the big house where most of her family still resided.

"Happy Birthday, Miss Sybbie," Elsie replied, eventually managing to get the girl at arms' length. "My, my. I think you've grown even more since I saw you last. Now," she said, tapping her own chin and pondering, "when _was_ that?"

"Yesterday!" Sybbie shouted, giggling, but she stopped abruptly when she spied the large package that rested just behind where Elsie stood. Only the strict voice of Nanny echoing in Sybbie's mind held her back from wondering aloud if the gift - the very _large,_ very _beautifully wrapped_ gift - might be for her.

"Well, now," Charles said as the other three sat on the settee and in one of the chairs, "I thought we had something here …" He made quite a show of looking around the living room, peering under the furniture and behind the drapery, even up the chimney of the fireplace and behind the coat rack in the corner. "Oh! There it is!" he exclaimed suddenly, and he and Elsie shared a smile at the widening of young Sybbie's eyes when she confirmed that the item Charles was pointing at was, indeed, the very box about which she'd been wondering. "For you," he declared, looking at Sybbie.

"Is it really?" She looked up at her father, who nodded.

"I believe so," he answered with a smile, knowing from several conversations with Downton's housekeeper precisely what Sybbie would find in the box. "Unless it's _my_ birthday?"

The young girl laughed. "May I open it?"

"Oh, please do," Charles told her, taking his own seat in the remaining chair.

Sybbie walked directly over to the box and pulled the tag towards herself, reading it in a soft voice.

"To Miss Sybbie, with …" She sounded it out quietly, nodded firmly, then continued, " … _af-fec-tion_ on her birthday. From the Carsons." She looked to them both, returned the smiles they were giving her, and tore the paper from the box before lifting the lid and peering inside.

"Oh! Oh, Papa! _Is_ it?!"

Tom laughed. "Is it what?"

She whipped her head to face him, scrunched up her nose in exasperation, and then clarified. "A dollhouse? Is it my very own _dollhouse?"_

"It is," Elsie told her, then she moved to kneel beside the precious girl. "Mr. Carson made it himself, and we worked together to paint it for you." She paused, then added, "It's not as grand as the one up at the abbey, but this one is meant for you to have at the cottage."

Tom got up and pulled the house from the box carefully, setting it on the floor and showing Sybbie how to lift the roof off and open the house from the side so that the entire inside of it was on display. He had a bit of a surprise of his own, however, when he saw that, unbeknownst to him, Charles had also fashioned some simple furniture for the dolls.

"Just to get her started," Charles said aloud, and Tom nodded his thanks.

"You made it yourself?" Sybbie's voice was full of awe, and she brushed her small hand along the edge of the house's front porch rail, then around each window - much as Elsie and Charles had done only days before. "It's so pretty."

"Well," Charles told her, "I built it, but we painted it together."

"We did," Elsie added. "Mr. Carson painted the walls and floors, and I painted the rails, shutters, and doors. And we did the roof together."

"I think my dollies will be happy forever in this house," Sybbie whispered. "Just like you and Mr. Carson in _your_ house. Thank you _very_ much."

"You're welcome, dear."

Elsie turned and caught her husband's glance.

 _Very happy indeed,_ she thought as she smiled at him, and her heart skipped a beat when he nodded his silent reply.

 _Forever._

* * *

 **With my thanks to Hogwarts Duo for her keen input. I'd love a wee review if you have a moment, and then please head on over to tumblr and wish canadianjudy the happiest of birthdays! xx**


	5. Come On, It Wasn't That Bad

**A/N: This prompt is from a series of quotes that appeared on tumblr some time ago, and this particular one was recommended by the lovely _misszenobell,_ who is so supportive of this fandom's writers. This is wholly inadequate as thanks, but I hope you enjoy the "response" nonetheless. This is also my entry for #unofficialdas9.**

 **xxx,**

 **CSotA**

* * *

 ** _Downton Abbey, April 1925_**

It was a busy Friday at Downton, with the hubbub from the livestock show and the incident with Marigold's disappearance with Mrs. Drewe fresh in everyone's mind. Tensions had been running high _before_ that, but the end of the week was proving a trial of monumental proportions: Lady Mary was barely speaking to her mother after she'd been chastised about her input into the Carsons' wedding plans, Andy had been distracted while serving the Dowager, who had unleashed her fury from the entire hospital situation on _him_ when he splashed the water as he poured it into her glass. That, combined with myriad other smaller things, meant that Charles ended up feeling the brunt of everyone's upset feelings and bad luck, beginning with a visit from Lady Mary, followed by a quiet word of "encouragement" from the Dowager to keep a better handle on his footmen, and ending with the sight that currently faced him … his fiancée's empty sitting room. Over the course of the last night, Elsie had fallen ill and had been forced to confine herself to her attic room for the duration of the day, lest her illness spread to the rest of the staff or, heaven forbid, one of the children.

She'd sent a note down for him that morning, a thoughtful consideration that he didn't truly feel he deserved after their bickering over the planning of their wedding reception. He'd felt awful about all that _before,_ but in the face of her kind words, which spoke of her guilt in leaving him to deal with the management of the staff on his own today, he was well and truly chastised and reminded that there are more important things in life than pomp and circumstance.

As he headed to his pantry, he pulled the note from his pocket once again. He sat at his desk and unfolded the paper, trying to catch the faint scent of powder he thought he'd caught on the letter earlier that morning.

 _Charles,_ it began, and she'd signed it _Elsie._

 _Of course_.

Even in the writing of a brief note, she was pushing him and needling him in that familiar way she had, a manner unique to her which had always piqued both his ire and his hopes in equal measure.

 _Elsie,_ he thought. He'd have to get used to it soon enough and could no longer pretend he hadn't spent countless nights trying to fall asleep while those syllables and letters rolled over his tongue as he'd whispered her name into the stillness of his small room, with a hope recently turned to a certainty that, one day, he'd be whispering them to her in a slightly larger room … a slightly larger _bed._

"Mr. Carson?"

He looked up sharply, deftly folding the note and tucking it in with some paperwork. He wasn't sure _why_ he hid it, truth be told. Perhaps it was just personal enough that he wanted to enjoy its newness without having to share it with anyone else just yet.

"Andrew, what can I do for you?"

Andy entered the pantry and stood before the butler's desk, and Charles noted that he was holding his coat and hat.

"His Lordship has requested that I accompany him into town, Mr. Carson. He's an errand to attend to and feels he'll need some assistance."

Charles's brow furrowed. "Did he say what it was?"

"No, sir, he didn't. But I didn't feel as though I could say 'no.' It's just that Mr. Barrow hasn't returned yet, and -"

But Charles waved his hand to quiet the younger man. "That's not your concern, Andrew. Off you go so as not to keep his Lordship waiting. Find me when you return, please."

"He did say to tell you it would be before the dinner gong, but asked that we let Mrs. Patmore know he won't require luncheon."

"Thank you." Charles stood, which Andy took as his cue to leave. As soon as the footman was out of earshot, Charles let out a huge sigh of frustration.

But then he saw the folded note, its corner poking out from the pile of invoices, and he smiled.

"Oh, Elsie," he whispered. "What a day to be without you." He slid the note into a drawer, closed it firmly, and made his way to the kitchen to inform Mrs. Patmore of the luncheon change.

"If it's about his Lordship, I already know," she announced when he turned the corner. "Andy mentioned it on his way out." She smiled. "Thoughtful young man."

Kitchen maids bustled around her, and Charles watched with interest as the cook delegated a few minor tasks to them before turning her attention back to him. "Fancy a cuppa?"

"I would, if you don't mind." It was only as he was saying the last bit that he noted the tray on the counter, and he raised his eyebrows slightly as he watched her add a cup and saucer to the set already resting on the tray. His stomach flipped when he spied the Beecham's powder, the lightly-toasted slice of bread with ample butter, and he watched as she added to the pot of tea.

"Surely you don't mean for me to bring that up to her."

Mrs. Patmore looked up at him, with the kettle still being held mid-air. "And whyever not?"

"Because she's in her _bedroom,_ Mrs. Patmore," he replied, aghast.

The cook smirked, and a sideways glance confirmed that her girls were busy and chatting between themselves.

"I'm sure she's got her nightgown on, Mr. Carson."

"Mrs. Patmore!" he nearly shouted, then he lowered his voice to a whisper. "She's in there _alone._ "

"Well, not for long, because you're going to head up there and get that powder and a slice of toast into the woman. So then she'll be in there with _you,_ won't she?" the cook said. "Call it … practice."

"But ... but," he sputtered. "But what if I'm needed down here?"

"You're needed up _there!_ Don't you worry; I can keep Mr. Molesley and the rest of them in line for a few minutes."

His face turned scarlet, and she lowered her voice and took pity on him. "Look, Mr. Carson, I sent Daisy up earlier to check on her. I think the worst of it is over, but the poor woman was up the entire night and she really needs this. And if I know her, and I _do,_ she also needs some reassurance that we can do without her for the rest of the day. Now, I don't have a girl to spare at the moment, and I don't think it's a good idea to send Anna in case …" Her words died away, but he didn't need to hear them. Elsie had shared her suspicions with him only days before, and after all this time he had no desire to place Anna in the path of illness. "And I'll let Mr. Molesley know he's to answer the door in case anyone arrives," she finished firmly.

"And where is Daisy now?" he asked.

"Picking up a basket from the Home Farm," she replied. "Look, just carry it up and knock loudly. Leave the blasted door open if you wish, but please … just do the woman a kindness. You'll need to get used to it once she's your wife."

"Well, we're not quite there yet," he muttered, looking at the tray again. He stared at the pot for another moment, then gave up the battle and tugged at his waistcoat. Charles reached for the tray, carrying it in both hands and turning for the stairway that would lead him to the attic.

Beryl watched him leave and shook her head, smiling. Daisy would be back in about two more minutes, but Mr. Carson didn't need to know _that_ , after all _._

Charles walked quickly up the stairs, pausing only to step aside as a maid scurried down past him. When he reached the dividing door, he was shocked to find it unlocked, but then he realized Elsie wouldn't have given the key to anyone except perhaps Anna or Miss Baxter, and neither of them had been in to see her. Assuming she'd told Daisy to leave it open, he reached for the handle.

 _To go and visit her. In her room. In her bed._ He swallowed with some difficulty, took a steadying breath, and then passed through the door. He knew just which room was hers, of course, as the women's corridor was a mirror image of the men's, and he stopped outside her door and smiled when he realized her name tag hung where his own did, the script and age of the paper different but the style and meaning the same: this was _her space._

Charles drew in a deep breath, balanced the tray, and knocked on the door.

"Come in, Mr. Carson," she called. " _Charles,_ " she added in a quieter, scratchier voice, and it made him smile despite the fact that she sounded quite weak. He opened the door and entered the room, then nearly dropped the tray when he saw her.

"Oh, you look …" He clapped his mouth shut, admonishing himself silently for what he was about to say.

"Radiant?" she supplied, and he chuckled.

"Precisely." He set down the tray on her desk and promptly poured two cups of tea, then made to deliver one to her. She was struggling with the pillow in her attempt to sit upright and comfortably, so he left the cup and saucer on her nightstand and, without even thinking about what he was doing, reached over to help her. He rested his hand on her shoulder and moved her forward a bit to pull up the pillows, then attempted to smooth them out and fluff them before replacing them and encouraging her to sit back.

Elsie leaned back against the pillows and hummed her approval. "Thank you."

"It was my pleasure," he replied, and the tips of his ears grew pink as he cleared his throat. "I didn't mean anything untoward by that," he added immediately.

"Charles, please, hand me my tea and then pull over that chair so you can sit." She glanced at the tray. "Is that a Beecham's I spy?"

"It is," he informed her, setting the tray over her lap. "That all right?"

She nodded, then took the powder and stirred it into the tea. "Yes. My head is pounding."

"You'll need to eat the toast."

"Have no fear," Elsie told him, reaching for the tea and blowing on the top, sipping it tentatively, and then laying it aside to take a bite of the toast. "I'm famished."

Charles watched her intently as she ate. "You were up all night, Mrs. Patmore said."

"I was. Rather awful business, too; I haven't been that ill since I was a housemaid." She reached for the tea, stirred again to be sure the powder was dissolved, and took a long sip, scrunching up her face in disgust and shaking her head once she swallowed.

"Oh, come on, it wasn't _that_ bad," he chided, and she looked up to see him trying to hold back a smile.

"It was, rather," she said softly, "but it's more palatable with the toast and the company. I know it must be miserably busy down there at the moment, but could you stay a bit?"

He thought about it, then caught her gaze. Her eyes were bright, her complexion ghastly pale … except for the spots where her cheeks were pinking at her slight boldness. A glance toward the door confirmed that it was still ajar, and he nodded.

"I can, actually. I don't think I'm needed until luncheon."

Elsie smiled gratefully. "Good."

They drank their tea and Charles watched as she ate all of the toast. "Thank you for sending the note," he said at one point.

"I'm never ill," she said. "I felt awful leaving you to deal with everyone today. It'll be a hectic weekend, with the guests they have coming in tomorrow. I hope to make it back in my office later on this evening."

"You'll do no such thing," he said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I have it all under control, and Miss Baxter is available if need be. There isn't anything that needs your attention that cannot be dealt with tomorrow."

"Much like those invoices piling up on _your_ desk?" she asked, her eyes guilty. "And here you are, sitting with me. I shouldn't have asked you."

Charles started at her for a moment, then shook his head and took a deep breath … and reached for her hand, which she placed willingly in his grasp.

"There is nothing I need to be doing right now that is more important than this," he whispered. "Now, you finish that godawful tea with the powder so that I can pour you a better cup, hm?"

Elsie felt him squeeze her fingers, and her heart skipped a beat.

"Thank you, Mr. Carson," she replied in a whisper, and then she caught herself and smiled weakly. "Charles."

He nodded slowly, and reached over to brush a piece of hair off her face. "There. That's better."

"I won't always be obedient, you know," she said, her voice lighter, and he laughed.

"Oh, believe me. I know."

She brushed her thumb over his knuckles. "Will you always be by my side when I'm not feeling well?"

He looked at her for a long moment, then leaned over and brushed her forehead with a tender kiss.

"Always."

 _The End_

* * *

 **These little snippets are not interconnected, but I do hope you enjoyed this. Please take a moment to leave a review to let me know what you thought. X**


	6. Well, Aren't You Going to Kiss Me?

**An overdue prompt chapter for tgrlady, written ages ago and forgotten about (well, I forgot for whom I'd written it but not that I had it still unpublished ... I had changed the quote a bit, but I hope she doesn't mind). Seemed fitting to hold it until today. xxx**

 **CSotA**

* * *

 _ **New Year's Eve, 1924**_

Downton Abbey is eerily quiet this New Year's Eve. Anna and Mr. Bates are, understandably, at home and celebrating together, and Daisy, Andrew, and Thomas have all been under the weather since pushing through Christmas. A somber tone had descended upon the family upon sending the Bransons off to America* and none of them felt much like celebrating.

And so it is that Elsie finds herself in her office, sitting at her desk and scratching away at a list and re-adding her figures at fifteen minutes to midnight. She'd intended to do it all several days prior, but her thoughts had understandably been otherwise occupied.

"There you are," she murmurs, happily finding her mistake, fixing it, and seeing that everything balances out perfectly at last. Leaning back and stretching as far as her chair will allow, she feels a satisfying pop in her shoulder blade, in the spot that always seems to catch because the infernal corset barely allows her to move.

The door creaks open, and Elsie turns with a smile; she'd heard his footsteps in the corridor but had paid them no mind - a miracle, really, given that the reason she's finally sorting her sums on New Year's Eve and hadn't done so on Boxing Day has very much to do with thoughts of the man now standing before her and very little to do with having been otherwise overly busy.

"I thought I'd bring us a little something," Charles says quietly, holding up the two champagne glasses and bottle.

Elsie rises and joins him by the small table - _their_ table, she thinks of it now, and she wonders fleetingly if she'll be able to bring it to their cottage once they marry. It's not hers, per se, but it's so much a part of their life together that it seems almost poor form not to keep it forever. Not that either of them plan to retire, but still ...

The _pop_ of the cork startles her back to her present surroundings.

She watches as he steadily pours champagne into each glass, lifts one, and hands it to her. He brushes his fingertips deliberately over hers, conveying so many things that he doesn't know precisely how to say, but Elsie understands most of them anyhow and blushes faintly.

"It still feels surreal," she tells him, and he gives her that sweet, boyish half-smile that she adores so much. They both know she means their engagement.

"You said _yes,_ " he reminds her, and her laughter is a bit nervous but very light in the quiet of her sitting room.

"I did!"

He picks up his own glass and pops open his pocket watch. "Two minutes," he tells her, and she nods.

"You didn't think I'd accept you," she marvels. "How on Earth you could have worried about that ..."

"To be fair, you admitted that you thought I'd never ask." A truth, and she doesn't deny it now any more than she would have a week ago.

"Well," she breathes, "here we are."

They stand awkwardly for several beats, still so unsure how to navigate the newness of their understanding.

"His Lordship seemed pleased," Charles manages. "And her Ladyship."

"They did. _I_ was pleased we're both being asked to stay on."

"And the cottage," he says, and now his smile is broad. He's proud that they're so very highly valued, so appreciated by the family. It was made very clear to them both that the cottage would be provided free of charge by the estate, including all necessary repairs prior to them moving in once wed, and that any protestations would fall on deaf ears as far as Lord Grantham was concerned.

"That was overly generous," Elsie replies, still uncomfortable with it.

"It's their gift to us," he says simply.

She nods. He's always had a higher opinion of the family's generosity than she has, except for that one time when she was ill ... But she cannot allow her mind to wander there tonight. Not now, when they're thirty seconds from the year in which they'll be married, and in which myriad other new things will be coming her way.

"I know."

He holds out his watch so that she can make out the ticking of the hands.

"Three ... two ... one," she says quietly, and she turns to him. "Happy New Year, Charles."

She sees his eyes widen briefly; it's the first time she's used his Christian name since the time he was ill with Spanish flu and she'd been attempting to bring him around from a deep, dangerous sleep.

He clinks his glass with hers and raises his eyebrows. "Happy New Year. I'm looking forward to this one."

They drink, and Elsie hums approvingly as the bubbles dance across her tongue. And then, before she can stop the words from tumbling from her lips, she hears herself voice them.

"Well, aren't you going to kiss me?"

His breath catches in his throat, and his heart pounds in his chest.

 _Well,_ he tells himself. _Aren't you, old man?_

With one hand still firmly clutching the glass, he lifts the other to her shoulder.

"Would that be all right?"

She looks at him incredulously. "We're going to be _married_. I think a kiss might just be permissible."

She watches as he leans in, and then her eyes flutter closed. She feels his lips touch hers hesitantly, then he pulls away before kissing her again, a little more assuredly this time, lingering for just a moment before backing away once again.

"It's a long time since I've been kissed like that," she whispers, elated.

"It'll be a year full of new things," he whispers back, and Elsie feels him squeeze her shoulder before allowing his hand to drop. She sees her opportunity and takes it, catching his fingers in hers and brushing her thumb across the back of his hand.

"All of them good, I hope," she adds.

"I have no doubt that they will be."

Neither notices the cook as she stands in the shadows by the kitchen and gives them a sweet smile.

"Happy New Year, my friends," she whispers into the corridor. "It's about time."

 _ **The End**_

 ***I have no idea precisely when they left, so we're going to assume it was right after Christmas. :-) Maybe I need a rewatch.**


End file.
